On the Trail

The footprints had been the first clue. They had led me to this hidden pocket of marshland where I had found the water bottle. Knowing only rangers and scientists came back here, I concluded they hadn’t left it. Then I found the knife. No one claimed it when I turned it in at the ranger station. All this had led to me crouching behind these bushes, watching whooping cranes through the green leaves.

I had done detective work many times around my neighborhood, but nothing as serious as this. It had mostly been cases of a missing cat or dog, nothing law breaking. When rumors started circulating and a suspicion rose at the Pine Creek Reserve where Dad and I were camping, I had decided to investigate who was hunting the endangered whooping cranes. I wanted to help these birds I loved.

A light mist was lingering and I had grown chilly. This was the third morning I was spending hidden. Suddenly a wild, whooping cry rang out. I stiffened, but not because of the cry. A shadowy shape was coming. It turned into a man carrying a gun.

I gasped. It was Mr. Harrison, who had become good friends with Dad during our stay. As he came closer, I panicked, realizing I couldn’t prove what was about to happen. Then I remembered. Pulling my phone out, I began filming as he raised his gun and took aim. A shot rang through the air. Silent tears streamed down my cheeks as one of the great birds fell.

Mr. Harrison didn’t take another shot. He gathered his game and left. I ran back to camp, evidence in hand.

Three hours later, I stood inside the ranger station with Dad, watching through the window as the police arrived, collected Mr. Harrison, and left.

Dad was quiet, and his face was sad.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “I know you liked him.”

Dad put his arm around me and said: “Don’t worry, Annabelle. You did what was right, even though it was hard, and that’s what matters.”